Extinguish
by conjured-dreams
Summary: John must figure out how Sherlock survived the fall or Sherlock is in deep trouble. Post-Reichenbach obviously . No ships. Rated for dark themes, little to no language. I don't own Sherlock, nor am I affiliated with BBC/ACD in any way. 18 chapters, with a possible further arc?
1. Juxtaposition

The trees rustled in the wind as the sky was slowly transforming from a brilliant blue into a million shades of pink and orange. A man dressed almost entirely in black, apart from a dark blue scarf, was leaning against a tall, common ash tree in a graveyard. He was tall and slim, and had a mysterious aura about him. His most prominent features were his high cheekbones (accentuated by the collar of his coat, which was grazing his jawline) and his eyes which seemed to be constantly changing colour from silver to blue, and even light green. The man held both hands, palms in, up to his lips, with his eyes closed as his shaggy, wavy hair blew softly with the cool breeze. His thick eyebrows were furrowed, but aside from that, not a trace of emotion was on the man's face.

Only one other individual was occupying the lawn cemetery. Within earshot, a shorter, stouter man who wore a tan, cable-knit jumper was standing solemnly in front of a black headstone. He had short, sandy hair and his eyes were a dark blue-grey. If one were to judge by the bags which were quite prominent underneath his eyes and the way he carried himself with his cane, he hadn't been getting much sleep. His head was down, making him look a bit like a wilting flower that needed water. He had been standing in that spot for an hour or so, mumbling about nothing out of the ordinary to this headstone. He spoke about his day, about people he knew, even a bit about the weather. Occasionally he'd reach up to wipe a tear off of his face, and sometimes, his voice gave out for a while and he just stood and stared at the grave in front of him.

What this man did not know, was that the person whose grave he was speaking to heard and would remember his every word. A passer-by might think it was a fairly normal scene until they realized the name on the tombstone in comparison to the name of the dark figure leaning against a tree made this scenario entirely unique. In both cases, the name involved was Sherlock Holmes. Dr. John H. Watson, the man across the graveyard, appeared oblivious that he was talking to the empty grave of a man who was standing not even ten meters behind him.

But Sherlock couldn't come out for a happy reunion. No, his visits to his friend—his only friend in the world—had to be stealthy and few. Actually, no one knew he had been visiting John at all, not even John.

After the heart-breaking realization that his best friend had died—committed suicide, no less—John sunk low. Lower than low. He was in a very dark place, and everyone around him knew it, though he tried to pretend he was fine. John would never forget the look on Mrs Hudson's face when she found him talking to no one as if he were talking to Sherlock. As if he was there. It was a face of pity, and most of all, one of realization that a friend had experienced something so traumatic that they had literally lost their grasp on reality. Before, John had reality in a death-lock with his feet planted firmly on the ground. Now, he wasn't sure what to believe—rather, he didn't know what he was physically capable of believing anymore.

John was diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder after he finally agreed to see someone. Hallucinating was not uncommon, and John was kept up at night due to reliving the event in his dreams. He'd tried to drink once, to maybe numb himself, but all it did was make matters worse. All he could see was Sherlock lying on the pavement and the pool of blood that rested under his head. He could taste the helplessness he felt when he took his pulse on that day, and he could never shake the feeling of Sherlock's cold hand and wrist which refused to give John any sort of pulse. The feeling never went away, and John was beginning to doubt that it ever would. As much as he hated to admit it, John knew that Sherlock was gone. The only thing that John felt fully aware of, was that Sherlock Holmes was a genius, and he would never believe Sherlock lived a lie. Too often he saw those flecks of emotion behind his eyes, those subtle, but tell-tale signs that Sherlock was genuine—even if he wouldn't admit it. John never did figure out why he jumped, mostly because dwelling on the topic for anytime longer than necessary usually wasn't a good idea. Visiting his grave was something he couldn't help (he often found himself standing in front of it when he had originally intended to leave the flat and return with groceries), but aside from his visits, he dwelled on Sherlock's death as little as he could. His therapist said things would get better, but John knew she was lying.

"Death never gets better, you know," John said softly to the grave. "You just learn to put it out of your mind so you can concentrate. Once you're reminded again, and remember the person you… you lost… it gets just as hard as it was before…. If not more so." John sighed.

_"Everyone knows that," _Sherlock thought, as if John could hear him. "_They just don't like to admit that they're fragile just like everyone else. They like to pretend they're stronger than most people, if only for the sake of their friends, which is usually a wasted effort because they can tell it hurts them as much as anyone else on the planet."_

John turned toward the setting sun and looked back at the grave. Flecks of pink and orange from the sky were reflected in its surface and dark trees outlined the sky over the name "Sherlock Holmes." For a moment, John thought he saw a dark figure in the reflection standing near a tree, but when he turned around, he was alone in the graveyard. _It's just the lighting. _John reasoned. _Sherlock had a slim figure. He even looked like a tree when you looked at him straight on sometimes. Anyone would make the same mistake. _John stepped forward and placed his hand lightly on the edge of the headstone.

"It's nearly been three years, Sherlock," he choked. "When are you—" John stopped, leaning against the grave. He buried his face in his arm and clenched his fists.

"Who am I kidding? You're not-…" After a while, he limped away on his cane, never completing his sentence.

The graveyard grew darker as John got further and further away. Sherlock stood up (he had been hiding behind a tree due to the scare he gave John) and brushed himself off, slowly and quietly. The sun was almost completely gone now, and streetlights started flickering on up and down the alleyways and sidewalks. Sherlock approached the spot where John once stood. It was surreal to see his own gravestone, and once or twice he had to remind himself that he still lived. Mycroft had done a good job with it. It was very convincing. Sickeningly so.

All at once, he knelt on the ground in front of his grave. A red corner of what looked like an envelope was poking out from a patch of grass that stuck out wildly in all directions. He looked around to find the rest of the graveyard empty, and then picked up the envelope. It was unlabelled, but was sealed with a wax seal, imprinted with a rose. The red envelope indicated that the sender wanted it to be noticed. Bond paper-type (made from mostly rag pulp, it appeared) envelope; indicating it was probably packaged by a business or a person with access to the paper used in their business. They felt no need to label the name of who was to receive it, meaning the recipient was obvious or, more likely, that they knew only one person would have had access to it. Red, traditional sealing wax (probably homemade with vermillion, shellac and Venice turpentine, maybe with a bit of beeswax, but it wasn't likely, as beeswax is usually only used in black sealing wax), not used for security, but for ceremony, as most use it for in modern times. It was probably stamped by somebody right-handed since the stamp was uneven with the wax, leaning toward the right (which also indicated a possible hurry). The sender was most likely a woman, judging by the rose emblem (unless it was a family crest or something similar) and also by the slightly light touch used to stamp the sealing wax, indicating the care put into the appearance of the letter.

To the man previously known as Mr Sherlock Holmes,

Meet me at The Pool at 21:00 today, April the twenty-ninth. The code to get past the guard has been included to heat things up a bit. Be prompt.

It said nothing else, and had no stipulation or contract. It didn't need to, and the sender knew it. If anyone knew who he was as of now, it was of utmost importance that he took a look. But… who could know? Mycroft was covering it up quite well. Then again, Mycroft could be fooled; he had been before.


	2. Ostentation

Sherlock examined the letter further. It probably wasn't an old pen, as the ink was vibrant and there was no sign of it drying out. The quality of the writing utensil was good, but not anything to be surprised about. The flow and thickness of the writing was consistent. There were no drips and the edges were hard with very minimal bleeding. All of this meant it was probably written with a red inking pen (not a ballpoint, those aren't as consistent), most likely highly manufactured and found in most stores. The tail ends of the letters, which lightly sloped into its neighbours, indicated that the writer of the message wrote it quickly. There was no attempt to conceal their handwriting or make it any neater. It was probably sent by the person who wrote it. If it had been someone writing for the sender (like an office secretary) it would have been written slowly to avoid spelling mistakes or to make it neat so the receiver could read it with ease. The sender was most certainly female, there was no questioning that any further; the handwriting made it boringly obvious. The fact she used the word 'today' with the correct date meant it was supposed to be read today, though it could have been written on another date and merely planted here for him to find today. Either way, the sender was good at planning and was quite confident in their abilities to make sure that not only Sherlock would find the letter, but to make sure that Sherlock would want to show up.

There was no code that Sherlock could see, but he knew how to find it. _Heat things up a bit_, he thought. _Boringly simple. _He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and manipulated the flame so it licked the corner of the letter. Sure enough, a code began appearing. The letters would heat and appear and then disappear as either the paper burned away or as it cooled down. He was expected to remember it, and he would.

After burning a majority of the letter and memorizing the code that appeared, Sherlock popped the collar of his coat and made his way to the location, which was only a couple blocks away. When he arrived, he approached a man dressed in a dress shirt and a red vest with a rose in the breast pocket. After staring at Sherlock for a moment, the man spoke.

"The sunset was nice today. Did you see it?"

"Yes, it almost looked like the sky was on fire," Sherlock finished, in conjunction with the letter. The man nodded and stepped aside. Sherlock looked both ways before walking into the familiar setting. The smell of chlorine and the sound of his black shoes scuffing on the cement floor filled his senses and he tensed as he remembered the last time he had been near the pool. He squinted and saw the reason why (he presumed) he was here.

A woman with bright red hair who appeared to be dressed in almost entirely scarlet stood afar off, on the other side of the pool with her back turned to Sherlock. She was on her phone (which was also red) and Sherlock stopped, in an attempt to hear what she was saying. She, however, must have anticipated this, because with a few hushed words she hung up and spoke, without turning around.

"You're late," she stated. She didn't sound upset, or even the least bit irritated; she only sounded like she was stating a fact that everyone in the room knew but needed reminding of. He offered no explanation, in fact, he said nothing at all. Sherlock said nothing as her heels clacked against the floor. He took a few steps forward and stopped, having no desire to get near the woman.

"The name is Candace Davies, but most people just call me Davies." The woman offered her right hand out to Sherlock, and waited a moment as he stared it down. She cleared her throat coolly as she brought her right hand down to her left to adjust a white gold ring studded with rubies.

"You're right. This is no social call." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets as the woman offered him a seat. He glared at her darkly and continued standing. She did as well, without the slightest hint of negative emotion on her face. She looked amused, actually.

"What is this about?" Sherlock questioned with no hint of a qualm. It was more of a statement, actually. Giving her permission to speak, almost, and letting her know that he wanted any information she could give him. Davies tried to ignore his tone. Sherlock was used to that.

"We have a predicament, you must understand," the woman mused. "Normally I'd just let it pass. I didn't much care for Moriarty, and seeing one of his plans fail would be no skin off my teeth. In fact, it might be rather," she paused and smirked. "Pleasant. However, Doctor Watson might figure it out." She spun on her red high-heel so she faced the blue and white tiled wall to Sherlock's left. She was almost as tall as him in her no less than four-inch heels, and was far more foreboding, even in his mostly black outfit.

"Well," she paused. She took a white pin with a single ruby on the end (it looked real to Sherlock) out of her red hair and replaced it, tightly. "I should say 'maybe.' I doubt he has twenty-five per cent of the skills you possess in logic and reasoning. We might not have anything to worry abou—"

"He could figure it out," Sherlock spat. Sherlock knew he was just making matters worse, but he didn't care. When anyone suggested John wasn't his equal, he had a hard time taming his anger. It almost felt like fire. It was insulting, and it just made him angry. He clenched his teeth and repositioned his black glove as she laughed at him. It was a cool, loud laugh that made his ears ring when he heard it. He despised it.

"Well. That changes things. If you're so sure, and I'm so sure, then…" The woman stepped closer to the tiled wall with her hand on her chin. Her long, thin eyebrows were slanted in a quizzical manner, and her dark eyes had a curiosity in them that Sherlock noticed right away. That look could be dangerous for the giver and the receiver.

"How about a wager?" She raised her left hand, revealing a perfectly manicured set of scarlet nails that came to a slight point at the ends.

"Yes, because it's perfectly logical to wager someone who has a past with Moriarty and thinks cheap tricks are a way to survive," Sherlock replied, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Don't you know by now I can just beat your crew again?"

Davies smirked.

"That's just it," she said. "I'm not sure." She took a few paces toward Sherlock, who held his ground.

"No tricks. Just fair play and a possible way out."

Sherlock said nothing. He waited for her to continue.

"You may appear to John and reveal yourself as the genius you once were. But once you're there, you must coax him into telling you what happened that day. He must say it on his own, and you can't give him any hints, though you may ask well-thought-out questions."

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously. His eyes darted across her face, trying to find any hint of foul play. The facts leaned toward her being honest; she met him in person and gave him her full name (and hadn't threatened him with snipers). She even wrote the letter (that was glaringly obvious now).

He squinted his eyes as he popped his collar and asked, "Or what?"

"Or… you kill him."

Preposterous. He wouldn't be able to if his life depended on it.

"And if I don't?"

"Then I kill both of you. For good."

So his life did depend on it—and John's. Sherlock's jaw tensed. His mind was automatically scanning the options available, going down every possible route. Three routes were obvious, but there was a fourth, a fifth and a sixth outcome. It was risky, but so were the other options. He weighed the probability of John being able to solve a case like this. Sherlock had no doubt that he could do it, but it would probably take time.

"If I were to do it, how much time would I have?"

Davies stepped away from Sherlock and ran her thumb down her scarlet lips and to her chin. She held her thumb there and, and after a moment of thinking, flashed him a crooked smile. It was much like Sherlock's smirk, but was much more devious.

"You get twelve hours," she said, obviously amused. "There is only one other stipulation that I'll put into effect after that one." She turned to him and folded her arms.

"No cell phones," Sherlock guessed, already bored. Davies laughed.

"You truly are a genius," she mused. He straightened up and almost wished he had said nothing. The way she said 'genius' made it sound like an insult.

"That's correct. No cell phones. If I see either of you using one, I'll end the meeting for the both of you."

Sherlock knew precisely what she meant. This stipulation took away two options, and yet Sherlock saw another that it added. It had promise, but it could only be used in a desperate situation. However, John was in a dark place right then. Any of the options might have been better than what he was going through. The possibility of being able to have everything go back to normal was something worth fighting for.

But was it worth John's life?


	3. Hindrance

John jolted out of his sleep to an ear-piercing alarm that was shrieking at its loudest volume. He panted and looked around his room frantically, trying to make some sense as to where he was and why he wasn't where his dream had taken him. In only a second or two, he did, and placed his head in his hands, defeated. The beeping from his alarm droned on. It was almost white noise to John, now. He rubbed his forehead and silenced it as he swung his legs over the side of his bed, carefully. Supporting a portion of his weight on the cane that had been placed near his bedside table the night before, he got up slowly from his bed as his leg sent a shooting pain up his spine. The pain caught him off-guard and he fell to his knees, hand still on his cane.

"That stupid dream," John muttered. He almost wished he could go back to his old dreams that haunted him of his military experience. They seemed more distant, or less real. If nothing else, they were more bearable. He chuckled half-heartedly. _How low am I now? _He asked himself. _Rock bottom, surely. _

Sherlock once said that the human mind can only remember visual memories with 62% accuracy. John was fairly certain he proved him wrong in this instance. Shortly after the fall, John awoke from nightmares with such startling accuracy of Sherlock jumping off the roof that he remembered every hair, every shadow, every mark on his hands and face. The voices when Sherlock jumped were tuned out, muffled, more like, but every night he relived that scene, that living nightmare when he finally coaxed his weary mind to sleep. Most importantly, he remembered the feeling of helplessness. John had never really felt helpless before when he was with Sherlock. It was so easy to save the day. But that time… that time John was absolutely powerless to help his friend. He felt more like a failure for that than a hero for any of the times he was able to help Sherlock. That feature of the event stayed true and clear in his dream, just as the scene itself was startlingly clear.

The dream only came every once in a while now. Once or twice a month he was visited by this nightmare. His psychiatrist was positively chuffed with this hefty improvement. _Good for her, _John thought bitterly as he hobbled down the remaining three steps and turned into the kitchen. _She's not the one who was put on medicine for a year before it properly started working. _

Carefully, John reminded himself he only needed to pour one cup of tea. Often, it wasn't until he poured the second cup for some seemingly invisible other occupant of his flat that he realized no one else was there. Sometimes Mrs Hudson would drink the tea to make him feel like he had done it for a purpose, but she didn't fool him, no matter how good her intentions were. At first it brought tears to his eyes that his landlady was trying so hard to cover up his mistake. Once he had gotten frustrated with her and told her to leave. It was _Sherlock's _tea, not hers. But this just made her frightened and upset.

Today, he had one cup of tea and a newspaper. The flat was eerily quiet, with nothing but the clock ticking, the rain pattering on the roof and the sound of John flipping his newspaper until his phone emitted a quiet beep. John silenced his phone, and sighed as he put on a jacket and headed out to make it to his appointment on time.

The rain was a bit annoying, but water never hurt anyone. Nevertheless, he still felt like he should hail a cab. Usually he'd force himself to walk the distance, even though it was almost a mile away, in hopes of improving his leg by giving it more use, but it seldom did anything more than hurt him further the next day, and he had no desire to accidentally put his cane in a puddle and slip. The looks of pity when he lost his balance or otherwise hurt himself were more than he could bear to look at. Decorated army doctor, captain and war veteran indeed.

A dark figure a little ways off was also hailing a cab and having as much luck as he was. The cabs were mostly full right now. It made sense, but it was frustrating all the same.

Eventually, the man a ways down the sidewalk got a cab. He put his hood up and looked over at John, as if just noticing him. He hesitated and called out to him.

"I got you a cab, sir!" he remarked loudly. John, though taken aback, limped toward the man who began walking away quickly.

"Oh—that's not—… Thank you!" John called, but the man said nothing. John got in the cab and told the cabbie the address he was headed to. The man nodded, repeated the address to John and pulled out in the road.

"That man—he a friend of yours?" the cabbie asked. John looked up.

"Uhhh- No. Never seen him before."

"Well, he's a good Samaritan then, he is. Paid for your trip. Looked like all the money he had in his pocket, though I could be wrong," John blinked. "It was an odd amount, though I can't imagine you'll need it all. Paid £7.38, he did."

"That's alright," John said. "That was… nice of him. You can keep whatever I don't use."

The cabbie nodded and continued driving without a word. John watched other people hailing cabs and running out of cabs into buildings. Some children in raincoats and rain boots jumped in puddles while another tried to hide under any roof he could find, desperate to get out of the rain. One kid tripped while John and the cabbie were caught in traffic.

"Ah, sir, can you park here and wait a bit? I'll be right back. You can charge for waiting."

The cabbie nodded and pulled into a parking place. John pulled a small first-aid kit out of his back pocket and got out of the cab. The kid was on the ground, and it looked like he was trying not to cry. One of the kids had gone on, oblivious of the scene behind him, but the other two were near him asking him if he was okay. He was nodding. John put the cane against the wall and knelt on the wet pavement with a bit of difficulty.

"Hey. My name's John. I'm a doctor. Is your mum around?"

The boy shook his head and sniffed. John smiled at him.

"That's alright, I'll fix you all up. Can I see where you were hurt?"

He nodded and showed John his knee, which was now speckled with small red spots of blood. John put on a glove and took out an alcohol wipe to clean the cut.

"Can I help you out?" The boy nodded.

"This is going to sting, okay?" The boy looked away and scrunched up his face as John wiped the cut with the alcohol. The boy let out what sounded like a choked whimper and John apologized.

"Sorry, it's almost over. I'm just going to put some medicine on this bandage and then I'll put it on the cut and you can go, good as new."

The boy looked at John as he worked, and water was now getting in his dark, curly hair and dripping onto his face. John noticed he was the only child not wearing any proper rain gear and that his clothes were pretty torn up and ragged. He didn't comment on it, but he wondered if the child was homeless. John grabbed his cane and stood, offering a hand to the boy, who took it and got up, bending his knee back and forth, as if to see if John did a good job.

"Th—thanks, Doctor Watson," he whispered, and ran off to join the other kids. John waved and hurried back to the cab. It wasn't until he got in the cab that he realized he never told the kid his last name was Watson. Now that he thought about it, the kid seemed familiar. Maybe a past patient or something.

"Thanks for waiting. We can go now," John said. The cabbie, who actually looked happier than when they first left, pulled out in the road and drove the remaining block to his psychiatrist's office.

"Looks like your mystery friend had you covered after all," the cabbie remarked, amused.

"Did he?" John looked over at the counter. £7.38. "Well, will you look at that. Looks like I got lucky or he's a genius." John joked.

"Have a good day, sir." The cabbie tipped his hat.

"You too," John replied. He shut the door and the cabbie drove off, leaving John staring at the building, wondering if it was worth the lecturing to skip his appointment. In the end, he started toward the building and hit the button on the elevator. Distantly, he hoped the cabbie wasn't annoyed that he didn't get the extra money, but something told him that he didn't mind. John tapped the number 3 in the elevator and let the secretary know he was there. She told him to go in. He was going to refuse so he could sit on one of the more comfortable chairs in the waiting room, rather than the hard, wooden chair he was allowed in the office, but he held his tongue. Best be on his best behaviour if he wanted to go back to work.


	4. Nonplus

**Hello, hello! I hate to interrupt, but I wanted to say something quickly, now that I know people actually read this thing.**  
**I update on Saturdays, and sometimes I go back and edit a few things in chapters previous. I did that today. It's not much, and if you don't go back and read them again you won't miss anything important. I just wanted to make sure you knew.  
The next chapter will go back in time a bit and will be in Sherlock's point of view. Generally, the chapters will alternate with two in John's pov and two in Sherlock's pov, but we'll see how long that lasts.**  
**This is my first fanfiction (BBC Sherlock has changed me...) and it was actually inspired by the song _The Riddler Who Can't Solve Riddles _(which I will be making an animatic of eventually based on this fic)and its sequel, _The Riddler Who Won't Solve Riddles_. They're vocaloid songs, but they're pretty fantastic if you want to listen.**  
**Anyway, I've talked long enough. Enjoy, and please do review so I know what I'm doing wrong and doing right!**

John strode into the office slowly. Apparently, he was early. He took his usual seat and drummed his fingers on his cane that he held upright with his foot. The office was a bit dishevelled, like usual, and the rain fell down the window in large drops, casting bright shadows on his hand and the floor. The shelves were coated in a very thin layer of dust, and the boxes in the corner were disappearing more and more with each visit. It was a fairly new building, so it was easily excusable that there were still boxes in corners and such. The paintings on the wall looked like expensive pieces of modern art that he had seen in auctions on the telly and such. John didn't much care for it. He eyed the ticking clock above the shelves in front of him. He wasn't early by much, but evidently it was too early for his psychiatrist.

Straining his ears to listen for footsteps in the hall, he stood up a bit clumsily and paced a bit around the room. The hardwood floors squeaked a bit under his rubber-soled shoes and rubber-guarded cane as he made his way behind her desk. He was not interested in the desk's contents, but rather the shelving unit behind it. He swept his forefinger across the spines, picking up a bit of dust as he went. It was obvious she didn't read these books much. She probably hadn't even picked them up since they were placed on the shelves a few months ago. Not finding anything of interest, he turned around and eyed a tall stack of folders. If his was there he might have been tempted to take a look, but it wasn't, so he walked over to the window instead to look out over London. He was only a few stories up, so there wasn't a spectacular view to keep him busy, but he was able to watch cars driving slowly in traffic and people walking up and down the street, holding umbrellas or running to get out of the rain. A woman stood on the opposite sidewalk across from his psychiatrist's office, talking on a mobile phone. She was dressed in what looked like mostly red, and something about her seemed to ring a small bell; though he couldn't remember much further than knowing she was similar to someone he had seen before. He was fairly certain he hadn't seen her in specific before, but… he racked his brain, unconsciously looking through her. Of course! The victim dressed all in pink from the first case John went on with Sherlock! This woman was like her, but instead of pink, everything was red—even her hair. It was a bittersweet memory, but he allowed himself to be swept up in it. How John wished he could go back to that day and re-live it all over again- even if he didn't have the knowledge he did now. He would just love to live it all again. Even if he was allowed the chance, though, he wouldn't take it. Not knowing how that story ended.

After a moment, she held her phone away from her ear, tapped the screen and looked up—right at John. After a bit of a delayed reaction, he jumped away from the window, hoping he was just seeing things and that she didn't actually look at him. The grey-green curtains rocked as his cane clattered to the floor. He reached over to peek out the window again, making himself less obvious than before. Surely she had been looking at the window above him or next to him… John realized with a start that the woman was gone. John picked up his cane, with a bit of difficulty and made his way over to his seat. No sooner than he sat down, his psychiatrist (heels clicking all the way) walked in and greeted him.

"Hello, John," she said softly. "How are you today?"

"F-fine, yes, good. Fine, Doctor Foster," he stuttered. She looked at him over her thin-framed reading glasses as she made a note on her clipboard. Doctor Foster wheeled her chair out from behind her desk to get closer to John, as she did every week.

"You sound flustered," she commented as she sat down, getting her pen ready. John pulled in a deep breath and smiled, somewhat weakly.

"Y-you surprised me coming in," he replied. She raised an eyebrow.

John insisted. "Really."

"Alright," she mumbled, obviously not convinced. Her pen was scribbling frantically on her clipboard. John tried his hardest not to look. He focused on other things around the room, drumming his fingers on his cane. His eyes ended up at the window, and he stared at it for a bit longer than he should have.

"In a hurry?" Foster asked. John shook his head and chuckled softly.

"I'm fine. I think you're paranoid." John fidgeted a bit. This session was even more awkward than they usually were, and they were usually quite awkward.

Foster then proposed, "Why don't you tell me about what's been going on lately?" John thought for a moment. His Doctor took notes. That scrawling was starting to irritate John a tad.

"I only poured one cup of tea this morning. Same with most days the past week. I read the paper then left for the appointment today, like usual." She nodded.

"Anything else?" she begged.

"Uh, I helped a kid out today on the street. I think he might have been homeless."

"Oh, did you walk here?" she eyed the window. "Awfully wet for that—"

"No, I hailed a cab," John said. She was being awfully nosy today. He straightened his back as she asked the next question, his grip tightening slowly around his cane.

"Oh? So you made the cab stop, or did you help him before you got in?"

John laughed. "I don't see why that's important, but yes. I made the cab stop." She smiled.

"Must've been expensive. We can reimburse y-"

"Actually no—well, I mean, it would have been over 7 pounds, which is a bit expensive for this distance, but—"

"Would've been?" she implored.

"If you'd let me finish—" he stopped. She looked a bit sheepish. John softened and continued. "Someone paid for me before I got in," he confessed. "Sure was nice of him. Anyway, I asked the cab to stop and I helped the kid out. He scraped his knee, no big deal. He got up and ran off just fine. Good as new. Tough as nails. He didn't want to look hurt in front of his friends."

Doctor Foster nodded. "Sounds like improvement. You're going back to normal. You might even be able to go back to work soon." John brightened at this as a man walked in and began talking to Doctor Foster in a hushed voice.

It had been ages since he'd been back to the clinic to help out. They told him to take some time off with sad expressions on their faces after his wedding. It was bad enough he lost Sherlock, but losing Mary minutes after he left the cathedral by some unknown sniper…. He was in denial for a very long time. The way Sara looked at him after that broke his heart. He moved back to his old flat, mostly to keep Mrs Hudson company, but he couldn't deny he had hoped it would help him with his loss. Going through Sherlock's old things did help a bit, (Mrs Hudson didn't have the heart to get them hauled away, though Mycroft did take the bulk of it) but it was little help compared to how he felt. Mrs Hudson even lowered the monthly fee for him, and he still couldn't find much comfort in that.

"Well, John, we'll have to conclude this meeting early. You get this visit free since it's only been twenty minutes." John stood up quickly, excited to be free. "Have a good day, John."

John grinned and left, taking the stairs. It hurt, a bit, but by the time he got to the bottom he felt fine. He left the office and, expecting rain to begin splattering on his shoulders, was pleasantly surprised about how clear the sky had gotten. Things were looking up. He started to hail a cab, but stopped himself, and instead went around the corner to pick up some groceries. He was low on jam, and he could use some more milk and bread as well. He was already on this side of London, so he might as well pick it up now.

He got the groceries fairly quickly (steering clear of the self-checkout aisle) and hailed a cab. It probably took five minutes to get one, but once he did there was minimal traffic and he paid the cabbie generously. There was almost a spring in his step. The more he thought about being able to go to work, the brighter his day seemed to become. He marched up the stairs and greeted Mrs Hudson (no reply, she was probably out) before opening the door to his flat.

In that instant, to John, time froze. He dropped his keys and the bag of groceries, and distantly, he regretted doing so, thinking about the mess he would have to clean up.

There were much more pressing matters at hand now, though.

Standing before him, drinking tea in his kitchen, was the man who paid for his cab that morning, playing violin. Now that he got a good look at him, everything that happened that morning made perfect sense.

"Good afternoon, John," Sherlock, now ginger, declaimed. "What took you so long? Been waiting for a while now."


	5. Warder

Sherlock entered the flat cautiously. He would have to scold John about making it so easy to get in. He closed the door and peered at his surroundings. His skull was on the mantle, his chair obviously hadn't been sat in since he left, John's computer was receiving a lot of attention as of late, and the kitchen was getting low on groceries, he could already tell. Considering that John had just left moments ago (Sherlock hailed and paid for his cab not five minutes prior), he would be hung up on the way (Sherlock saw Wiggins, Ozzie, and Elliott, some of his Irregulars, running down the same slippery sidewalk John would be driving by, and chances are, Wiggins would trip over the indented sidewalk in front of the Bakery, as he usually did, forcing John to feel a need to help him out), his therapist would be late due to a previous engagement with Mycroft (by Sherlock's design, to warn her) and that he had to get groceries on the way home, he knew he'd have some time before John was back.

He closed the door and took a few steps forward, fighting back an intense feeling that he was an intruder here. Why he felt that way was something that not even he could deduce, though if he had to take a guess, he'd say it had to do with guilt, maybe guilt for causing John to sink so low, or perhaps guilt for even taking Davies up on her wager. Or, he realized with a sigh, both. That would be his guess if he was forced to procure one. A year or two earlier and Sherlock would have ignored her suggestion and stubbornly gone to figure it out on his own, after finding a way to rid the world of her and anyone else who was in league with her. The three years had mellowed him out a bit, though, after multiple unsuccessful, well-thought out plans that either failed or didn't succeed as well as he wished. He'd tried it on his own for too long. There wasn't an easy way, and he was trying to rid the world of his enemies before putting John in further danger, but it wasn't an easy task. There was nothing he could find that made it safe for him to come back, not in the immediate future. It was harder now that he no longer had his name to get him into places of importance. Not that he could even use it if he was fine and well. That was how Moriarty worked. He didn't kill him, he just discredited every word he had ever said. Maybe even John believed him at this point.

The thought made his throat feel as if it was a tenth of the size it normally was.

He cleared his throat of the feeling with a cough and took his coat off to put it in the closet, out of habit, returning to his usual face of apathy. He walked into the kitchen, carefully. If Mrs. Hudson checked in for whatever reason, he would be able to hide easily from where he was, and she would assume John left the tea there without a second thought, as most would. When John arrived, Sherlock wouldn't hide, instead choosing to be discovered immediately. He imagined at that point that John would drop the groceries and reach for his prescription to make sure he was up to date, instantly assuming Sherlock was a hallucination—as he usually did. But this time, he didn't have the black wig on, and his appearance was different. John might realize it was him and figure out it was him that paid for his cab. Whatever the reaction, Sherlock had a plan.

He glanced at the patterns made by the sun on the carpet. It was nearing ten-thirty, he would guess. John would be getting back in the car after helping Wiggins, he guessed. He pondered on how long it would take to go grocery shopping after his appointment. If he ran into just under half of the stoplights and other traffic-related delays, he would be home around noon, assuming his therapist heeded the advice given her by her associate and ended his session early. Sherlock's guess was that he had an hour and a half or a bit more to explore the flat, and after double-checking the coat rack in the hallway to the right and deciding Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, that was what he did.

John's room was his first stop. Various papers were littered on the floor, and John's gun was in his nightstand. He obviously didn't think he'd be running into danger today. Sherlock sighed at such a stereotypical rendition of a depressed man's bedroom, and checked his old room. It felt as if a rock dropped in his stomach as he opened the door and found everything unchanged. He closed the door, deciding it would be better to stay out of the rest of the flat.

He returned to the kitchen and filled his old mug with tea. Mycroft did a very sloppy job picking what to take away and what to leave. Sherlock told him to take enough to look like Sherlock really wouldn't be coming back, but to leave enough for him to function if he ever did get to. His brother had a skewed interpretation of what it meant to function and he was surprised John didn't catch on, but not remarkably. He had to take his state of mind into account.

Reaching to pour another cuppa, he was alarmed to discover that he had emptied the pot. He looked at the time on his phone quizzically, and was alarmed to see it was half-past 11. He wasn't himself today; it was becoming much more clear it would be harder to function today than it normally was. It had been like that for a while. On some days, like on John's birthday or the anniversary of Sherlock's 'death,' it was almost impossible. Functioning. He retrieved his violin from the top shelf of the closet and began to play it softly, in hopes of it helping him think.

It had never occurred to Sherlock until he saw John visit his grave eleven times in the first two weeks after his 'death,' just how fragile he was. Sherlock knew how fragile everyone else on the planet was, but he had never come to terms with the fact that his friend was also fragile, just as all other people are capable of being. John always seemed to be above that standard. Then again, Sherlock never considered John to be a normal person. And yet, here he was, standing in his kitchen knowing fully well that John would wonder if he was caught up on his medicine to stop the hallucinations that were Sherlock's fault, somewhat directly and indirectly, so he could move on like the soldier he was and stop living in pain.

As soon as John walked in the door his time began. He would only have until five in the morning to get John to figure it out, and he knew Davies was watching. It could be anybody from the window washer across the street to a man several buildings away with a high-powered telescope to several snipers on the roof of the tallest building in London. They could be anywhere, with any form of weapon or means of contact to someone else with one. Sherlock realized, with a start, that they could even be in this flat. He wouldn't let John know of that suspicion, though, at least not yet. He had to use as much as the twelve hours he could to coach John and give him hints in subtle ways, and it would take a good hour or two just to get John to focus and stop asking Sherlock questions he couldn't answer. Not to mention the fact that he had to put both of their phones out of reach as soon as he could if he could help it. If nothing else, he had to make sure John didn't try to use his for anything.

It was at this point, that Sherlock, in his nearly unbearable guilt, might have left the flat if it hadn't been for the familiar footsteps on the stairs, off-balance and supported by a cane, flat-footed and somewhat hefty, military in their timing causing him to freeze to the stop, bow raised away from his violin as he attempted to regain control of the emotion his face was displaying. He did so with ease, a bit surprisingly, knowing what was at stake. He strained his ears to listen to John struggle with finding a free hand to open the door with. He had to know exactly when he walked in. The exact moment. He would start the stopwatch on his phone just before he walked in so he would have a countdown, and after that, he wouldn't even look at his phone if he could help it. He had to play the game their way, because, if he lost or was caught cheating, he would pay the ultimate price, the one he thought he already paid, but was proven wrong. There was one worse, and that is what could happen.

_Quite boring of Davies, really. Predictable of a chaotic mind such as hers, _was what he was thinking when he heard a key in the lock of the door. He started the countdown and placed it out of immediate reach, returning to his position with his violin. Soon, the door would open, and the game would begin. Sherlock was about to drag the man he had been protecting for so long, the very man he was trying to make safe almost constantly for the past three years, straight into war. He would be on the front lines alongside him.


	6. Abstruse

**Terribly, terribly sorry. I'll try to update a few chapters as soon as I can. Don't give up on Extinguish just yet!**

As John dropped his groceries, Sherlock made a mental note that if they both came out of this alive, he would go buy more. As a sort of celebration, he supposed. He never really did that before, and he thought John might appreciate the gesture. The doctor seemed to be frozen in spot for a long minute, and unless Sherlock was imagining things, the sky darkened outside. Cloud cover, he supposed, but he couldn't help but feel it was probably a bit symbolic for John. Sherlock watched him curiously as John took a step toward him, but hesitated. He reached into his pocket and took out a bottle of pills. He shook it and twisted the lid off the top to count the number of doses left. There were supposed to be fifteen. He had only counted a few when Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed his violin in its case and latched the golden locks loudly against the black leather.

"John, please," he said, picking up the case and placing it out of the way, "If I were a hallucination, do you think I would be disguised? Was I ever disguised before?"

The man's face hardened as he peered up at his colleague. He walked toward him, more briskly and confidently this time. Sherlock could tell by the way he had walked up the stairs with something like a spring in his step that his visit with his therapist had actually been successful, and he hated to ruin that, but there was little he could do about it. Sherlock eyed the timer on top of the kitchen cupboard which was still in the eleventh hour. It felt like such little time when there was so much at stake. He watched as John sorted out what was happening in his mind.

"You—you were-…."

"Dead?" Sherlock finished with a lop-sided smile. "Dull, boring, predicta-."

John's fist made contact with Sherlock's jaw as he said this, and Sherlock, not prepared for that type of reaction, hit the kitchen counter and fell to the floor. He hit him much harder this time than last, not that Sherlock could blame him. Rather than comment on this, Sherlock remained on the floor and braced himself for any other abuse he probably deserved.

"Oh, stop grinning as if what you did is normal! You… jumped… off St. Bart's… I.. I took your pulse!" John stopped for a moment before sinking to his knees and burying his face in his arm. "Three… years, Sherlock. What are you? A ghost? A phantom? An angel?"

Sherlock wanted to laugh at him and tell him about the irony of the last guess, but he needed to sort through his thoughts. He hadn't expected sadness. Anger, yes, maybe even joy, but probably not even that, not coming from John. Did John want him to remain dead? He realized he might have wanted himself to remain dead if he were in the same position. At least his grief would have meant something since he was forced to go through it. But, this wasn't something Sherlock had considered before. Exasperated, he ran his fingers through his hair before placing his hands, fingers together, to his lips as he looked at his colleague.

"Emotions. How difficult they are to deduce." He looked away as John looked over at him.

"What?" he breathed, tears in his eyes.

"I expected anger, I'd be angry with me now, too, possibly joy, but it wasn't likely. Exasperation, annoyance, rage, frustration, any of the previous," He paused and John stared at him incredulously. "But… not once did I expect sadness. It might just be easier if—" But John was standing up now and offering his hand to Sherlock. He eyed it cautiously and fidgeted a bit. Nothing about this scenario was comforting.

"If I take it are you going to punch me again?"

John didn't answer this time. Sherlock continued, "Because if you are, I'd prefer it if you did any further damage you desire to me now while I'm closer to the floor—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," his colleague said as he held his stance. Sherlock took his hand carefully and put his other arm on the table to stand. He had barely been standing for a moment when John embraced him. The two had never really gotten close like this, and it was painful for Sherlock to think that he had hurt his friend to the point that he wanted to be this close to him. The most they'd ever done was hold hands, and that was to conceal handcuffs, and if Sherlock recalled, there was many a time that John wanted to punch him in the face, even on his better days. He sighed and carefully placed his arms around his colleague—no, his friend, and realized with a pang of guilt that he was crying silently.

"John, I… I'm sorry," he said quietly as he hugged his friend all the tighter. It was a few moments before he realized John was speaking.

"—asked for a miracle, but it's been three years… You said you were a liar. I couldn't believe it; I refused to believe it. Mycroft said… and Molly… Donovan…. Even Lestrade!" At this, John looked up at him, "Sherlock, who else knows about this?" Sherlock had a hard time shaping his face to look unconcerned, and he knew he was probably being obvious.

"You, me, Molly, Mycroft… "

"That's all? Molly knows? For how lon—" But Sherlock had released him already and gestured to the clock that was counting down. His brow furrowed as he interrupted him.

"John, I have answers for you, but we don't have time for them right now."

"Time? What's going on, Sherlock?" John was wiping away remnants of tears on his face as he realized that the only reason Sherlock would be here now after all this time was for something grave or dangerous. "Why now? What's going on?"

At this point, Sherlock told John everything he could in as short an amount of time as possible. John looked distraught, but appeared to be keeping up. Sherlock skipped over the part where he would have to kill John, and only told him that there were people after them. People associated with Moriarty who had power to kill, and would, unless John solved the case of his apparent suicide. John's face looked surprised, hopeless and doubtful, but Sherlock knew he could do it. He knew that better than anything else. In fact, he had more faith in John solving his fake suicide than Mycroft himself. He had every confidence in John, and wanted so badly to prove Davies wrong. Those together would channel enough confidence for the both of them, Sherlock hoped, and if there was one thing Sherlock was good at (that filled other people with dismay), it was having confidence.

"Sherlock, how am I supposed to know how you…. Houdini'd yourself out of existence for a while, after jumping off of a building in front of my very eyes?"

At this, Sherlock smirked. "John, don't you remember your training? What about the man all alone in his room who drank a poisoned glass of wine? You solved that. Or the people falling off the roof? You knew the murderer was among them! Don't you see?" A look of realization spread over John's face as he took a step back, thinking back to his hallucinations. They trained him, they gave him fake cases and set up fake crime scenes, and while he was no Sherlock Holmes, he could deduce more about a person by just looking at them than he ever could before if he turned on that part of his brain.

"That… that was… you? No, it… it couldn't have—" he stopped and grasped a chair to avoid falling. "All this time… It was you!" He looked like he wanted to punch himself now, rather than Sherlock. "Why didn't I see it before? You were here…"

"Exactly! I've been coming to see you this whole time—well… Not every time. You did hallucinate part of the time, I'm afraid. John.. I'm sorry. So sorry. I made your condition seem worse than it was for my own selfish desires, and I realize that now," Sherlock held his arm up to steady John, who was refusing to make eye contact with him. "You told me on my second visit that I was trying to teach you deduction, so I… just…" John looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock again, rather than himself, but he continued. "Never did I realize that it would come in so much more use than just helping me blend in with your (apparently superb) hallucinations! I don't know what your hallucinations taught you, or if their methods were even correct, but mine were. Oh, it's Christmas, John! We've got them!"

"You… no, Sherlock, that doesn't make any sense!" John rubbed his temples, half exasperated and half confused. He fidgeted under Sherlock's gaze, and glanced over at the countdown, vaguely glad that he got the sleep he managed to get the night before and briefly entertaining the thought that he could just be even more insane than he had been before. He opened his pill bottle and poured the remnants on the table, hurriedly counting fifteen pills. He repositioned himself so he was leaning on the chair again, and Sherlock had slight hints of concern on his face—which was definite progress if John remembered correctly.

"I told you at the time, John. It's a trick, it's just a magic trick. It was all just a trick. Remember? I tried to tell you three years ago… Magic tricks never makes sense, not until you learn to observe! John, tell me." Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed John by his shoulders so he could see him eye to eye. "What do you remember? Why did the detective jump off the roof? Was there a logical explanation for his actions? How did he survive? You should know the answer, since it all happened in front of you!"

For a moment, John actually believed he could do it and everything would be okay.


End file.
